


Stay

by fyeahblackturtlenecks



Series: In the Pits of Angband [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Chronic Pain, M/M, sickly sweet fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 14:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4103821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyeahblackturtlenecks/pseuds/fyeahblackturtlenecks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Morgoth went ever halt of one foot after that day, and the pain of his wounds could not be healed; and in his face was the scar that Thorondor made.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> the more sickly sweet sugary fluff, the better.

Sauron does not wake to sunlight streaming through his window. Neither does the majority of Angband, in fact--most of the barracks lie deep below the earth, and the dragon and balrog habitations especially so. Besides, there are no windows in the bedchamber he shares with Melkor--there is no need for them.

So his eyes open instead to the near-dead light of the fireplace and to the sound of Melkor’s slow, steady breathing. His head rests on Melkor’s broad chest, wavy hair spilling onto greyish skin and giving off a sluggish orange glow. Melkor’s eyes are still shut, an arm wrapped loosely around his lieutenant’s shoulders, keeping him there. It would have been cold, what with Melkor’s body heat (or lack thereof), had the blankets not managed to cover them both instead of just bunching around the cold Vala, as they tended to do.

Sauron can hear how, outside their door, the fortress proper slowly wakes. The sound of dragons rising from slumber and releasing a night’s worth of pent-up flame forces its way through the stone floor from the pits below. Just outside the door, the pacing scrape of claws against a stone floor alerts the lieutenant to Draugluin’s waiting presence. Sauron lets out a small sigh as he slowly, carefully shifts himself out from under Melkor’s arm He makes it all the way to the edge of the bed before two cool, grey, very strong somethings wrap around his waist.

“...no.”

“Good morning to you as well,” responds Sauron, hands resting softly on Melkor’s forearms for a moment before making a somewhat halfhearted attempt to pull Melkor away.

In response, Melkor’s arms only tighten. The Vala lets out a muffled sound--Sauron would have called it a whine if he hadn’t known better--followed by a mumbled “...stay.”

Sauron turns in Melkor’s grip, twisting awkwardly to face the other. “I have much to do,” he says. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips at the sight of Melkor, more than half asleep and disheveled, long strands of black hair falling forward and catching in his eyelashes. Gently, Sauron brushes the hair back away form first one eye, then the other, and his face falls at the sight of the now-exposed crease between Melkor’s eyebrows. “What hurts?”

Melkor lets out a groan and loosens his grip, allowing Sauron to turn around properly. “All of it,” he says, head dropping into the other’s lap. While his arms wrap around Sauron’s waist again, his hands stay limp and carefully avoid touching the loose sleeping-shirt Sauron wears. “Are you--can--” and now, Melkor is pulling back, worried, looking up at Sauron with concern deepening the pained crease between his eyebrows.

Sauron only nods, running a hand through Melkor’s hair slowly and shifting closer. “If I were uncomfortable, you would know of it,” he answers. As Melkor allows himself to relax again, Sauron glances at the door, then back at Melkor, then the door again. “Let me just inform the captains that they are in command for the day, alright? It will not take long.” At Melkor’s nod, Sauron rises and goes to the small writing desk in the corner--his own addition to the room, for occasions precisely like this one, and for when paperwork finds its way out of his office proper. He scrawls out two quick notes--one for Gothmog and Thuringwethil each--saying only that “Command is yours for the day, do not allow the Orcs to get too out of order in our absence,” before opening the door to Draugluin’s eager and waiting presence.

The wolf knows better than to jump, but he does lick and nuzzle at his master’s hand, tail a wagging blur. Sauron bends down with a smile. “The other wolves are your responsibility today, alright?” He scratches behind Draugluin’s ear with one hand and holds up the notes with the other. “And I need you to find Lord Gothmog and Lady Thuringwethil for me, and give these notes to them, alright?” He held out the papers for Draugluin to take carefully into his mouth, clasping them by the corners in his teeth. “I know it’s hard, but try not to let them get too wet--Gothmog won’t mind, but you know how Thuringwethil feels about saliva.”

Draugluin lets out a muted bark around the notes, as if in affirmation, before nuzzling at Sauron’s face and obediently setting off at a run down the darkened corridor.

“You speak to him to him as if he were still a wriggling puppy,” says Melkor, voice muffled by the bedcovers.

Sauron smiles, making his way back to the bed and sitting on its edge. “Move over,” he says, gently nudging at Melkor’s shoulder. The Vala is sprawled over the middle of the bed, taking up the majority of the space. He shifts, and Sauron moves a few pillows over and settles back against them. Sauron reaches over, running a hand through Melkor’s hair and brushing it back from where it had fallen over his face again.

“Have I told you that you are extremely warm?” Melkor shifts to rest his head in Sauron’s lap again, leaning into the the touch as Sauron continues to run his fingers through his dark hair.

“On occasion,” answers Sauron, separating out a few strands of Melkor’s hair to braid.

“...good, because you are.” Under the covers, Sauron can feel Melkor shifting closer, pressing his leg, cut off at the ankle, against Sauron’s own. “Comfortable.”

“Anything you need?” asks Sauron, looking again at the pained lines that stood out so clearly on the other’s scarred face.

“Just stay,” answers Melkor, wrapping an arm around Sauron’s waist again, as if to keep him from going anywhere.

“I can do that.”

 


End file.
